Keebler cookie elves, that explains the chewed-over, throbbing rouge mesas. Psychedelic azure skies slathered with white custard clouds, that conjures Beatles’ lyrics. Dinosaurs tromped here, that means finding fossils and more – like venomous gila monsters, the newly named state reptile hissing in burrows not far from my house.
“Life elevated” is an official Utah slogan. “Life Saved” is my headline as I touch an empty pocket where once resided my emergency asthma inhaler.
It’s been a year since we escaped Central California’s corrosive air. Family and 40-plus years of friends grasped our desperation but gasped at our taking refuge in St. George: You aren’t Mormon and don’t know a soul in Utah, so why there?
Dad, you went to NYU, not BYU. You’re a first-generation Irish American, Kennedy liberal and retired journalist, not a cattle-ferrying frontiersman whose faith forbids drinking French roast or using swearing as conversational shorthand. You’ll be a friendless outsider.
St. George is a cultural and mercantile nexus for a swath of Utah, Arizona and Nevada, and mecca for California retirees. It’s two hours’ drive north of Las Vegas, a launch point to national parks, and one of America’s fastest growing cities.
At St. George’s Walmarts you’ll encounter sun-blanched retirees hunting bargains or working the check-outs, tanned parents in pink gym shorts with a flock of kids, and fundamentalist Mormons on smartphones and in pristine blue prairie dresses.
Utah’s eighth largest city demonstrates the “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off” closing admonition – life goes by quickly, pay attention or you’ll miss stuff.
Take the two pilots who last year successfully landed their private planes where St. George’s airport was eight years ago. It’s now home to a college and a burgeoning tech center. Each had an OMG moment, at least one captured on YouTube, and safely got airborne.
Those miscues would be unforgiven now. The cliffside campus is abuzz with construction, and St. George’s regional airport, built on an old drag strip southeast of town, is closed until September while runways sinking in blue clay are replaced.
The land route here tests your discipline. Interstate 15, Utah’s narrow link to Arizona and Las Vegas, carved into head-spinning cliffs along the Virgin River, is down to one lane in each direction as bridges are replaced.
Since we arrived in 2018, within a mile of mile of home there’s a new hotel, gas station, jewelry and other warehouses, and the first structures for a new 30,000-resident community called Desert Color.
Clean air. Courteous, frugal people. National parks. A thriving cultural and arts community. Children’s museum. A first-rate hospital with trauma center. Plenty for hikers, bikers, joggers, artists and other wanderers. Pickleball/golf. Costco. An expanding dinosaur museum. Retiree and veteran friendly. A Mormon temple downtown and branch church spires on corners and hillsides everywhere in this 2,700-foot high desert of 10,000-foot crenellated mountains.
Californians coming here 20 years ago wanted to transform St. George into a mini Golden State, said our Realtor, a Mormon and California ex-pat. Now they want to preserve what remains of its small-town wholesomeness.
The weather forecasters lean heavily on the phrase “Except St. George,” in part to explain how accuracy can be elusive when storms flow up from the Gulf of Mexico and down from Alaska.
We came here for clean air. We relocated here because we were welcomed. We visited and jawboned for week, trusted the Chamber of Commerce directory – if a business replied first, we tried them; we took strangers at their word; and tried to ease off my New York Minute expectations.
The place’s got quirks.
The St. George City Council restored a ban on public alcohol consumption after mistakenly deleting it. The council purposely deleted a possible jail sentence that loomed for dog owners whose pets pooped on others’ lawns.
And it’s got a dark side.
Presumed arson fires destroyed a Mormon church and damaged an Episcopal church sanctuary. A man was shot dead outside the One and Only Bar. A woman called state police saying her car’s driver wouldn’t allow her a potty break, resulting in a high-speed chase and taser battle with police. Another woman tried to pay Taco Bell with her marijuana stash. The area jail is named more for geography than irony -- the Purgatory Correctional Facility.
It’s driven by seasons.
It’s a retirement haven – Wyoming, Michigan, Washington, Oregon and especially San Diego and Orange counties. Retirees are generally welcomed as economic drivers who lifecycle out of their temporary communion with locals.
The diverse newcomers here and in the Salt Lake area are propelling the economy and challenging a tight-fisted, paternalistic political system. The state suffers from underfunded public education, pollution and drought, high opioid use and suicide rates and a sizable population of hungry children and “vehicle residents” – consequences of low wages and a weak supply of affordable housing.
State lawmakers are uneasy with the general populace. When voters instigated and approved an expansion of Medicaid and legalizing of medical marijuana, the Legislature hurriedly consulted with special interests including the Mormon church and enacted restrictions before both initiatives took effect.
The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is rebranding itself. Mormons want the world to see them the way they see themselves -- as part of mainstream Christianity. That may be easier to accomplish as mainstream denominations continue shedding members.
Less than half of Salt Lake City’s population is Mormon. It is one of the state’s few Democratic strongholds, electing the state’s only Democrat (a Mormon) to the House of Representatives last year.
There are more than 2 million Mormons among Utah’s 3.1 million residents. That’s about one-third of Mormons in the United States.
Among our first encounters with St. George Mormons: a furniture saleswoman, who chuckled over my fondness for “groovy,” “awesome” and “righteous,” and a Home Depot checker. I’d complimented the checker on her jewelry, which she explained was a CTR ring – a public endorsement for “Choose the Right,” a Mormon affirmation to righteous living in obedience to God’s will.
Community doesn’t happen without your skin in the game. Whether it’s for church, wilderness rescue, ski patrol or at St. George’s annual Huntsman Senior Games competition, Utahns lead the country in volunteerism.
My family has always responded to need, and we don’t choose friends based on spirituality. We’ve attended a Mormon sacrament meeting at the invitation of friends, and my wife Judy has worked with a Mormon group to create reusable feminine hygiene products.
We’re working with a local jewelry merchant who holds an annual Christmas party to benefit area Paiute tribes. Judy is now knitting winter caps and scarves for that charity, as she has done for others. The merchant refers to her as “Sister Scarf.”
I’ve disenrolled as a Democrat and now volunteer with United for Utah, a third party espousing public principle over internecine party politics.
We take reusable bags when we shop, irritating some checkers in the free-bag culture here. We chat with strangers with names like Arda from towns named Erda. I enjoyed a successful real-time email exchange with the state DMV. And the neighborhood kingsnake I met while getting my Wall Street Journal has a name. My California daughter said Stripes has a pretty face.
We now take our breathing for granted. Our leaps of faith joyfully continue.
John G. Taylor, a former journalist and retired California hospital system executive, lives in St. George, Utah.
